


make my blood move

by twnkwlf



Series: Accidents [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Stiles, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Coincidences, Derek In Heat, Finger Sucking, Hormones, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Derek, Omega Derek Hale, Playmating, play mating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 12:43:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4835837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twnkwlf/pseuds/twnkwlf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m an alpha.” This time, Stiles tries to make it sound clear and sure, but his voice threatens to crack under the weight of the words. It’s the first time he’s said that sentence and not been laughed at. It’s the first time that sentence has really meant anything. “You just...you <i>smell</i> like--”</p><p>“Oh, Jesus.” Derek drags a hand over his face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	make my blood move

**Author's Note:**

> Omega Derek is pure. Omega Derek is right. Omega Derek will cure all your ailments. 
> 
> I have never written anything so filthy in my life. It was a really awkward experience and I'm sorry if it's just AWFUL. 
> 
> Come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://twinkwolf.tumblr.com/)!

It starts on a scorching evening in the halcyon days of summer, which is an apt beginning, considering the things to come.

Derek is sweating, running-- being chased, really. He can hear Jackson Whittemore’s heavy breath coming up behind him as he flies through the final twenty yards of the field. It’s the last thirty seconds of the last pick up game of the summer, and he is going to score the last goal. The lacrosse stick is warm to touch from exposure to the sun and Derek’s sticky hot hands gripping it for so long with such commitment. They’ve been at this for hours. A mass text called the boys out of their air conditioned houses, rushing the field and dragging along tattered gear that would have to be replaced come tryouts in the fall (if Finstock was going to take any of them seriously). Derek plays in skins. His shirt, pads, helmet and all are left on the sidelines. For him, the afternoon is too hot, no matter how bruised his ribs might get from being tackled without protection.

It’s alive outside, active. The high school never really shuts down in the summer, with classes running for those who flunked last semester, and the whole town using the place like a park, it’s almost as if school is back in session, the way the grass is as worn down as always. Around the edges of the field, little kids wobble on skateboards while moms and dads walk the track with strollers. A few older men, out for their daily stroll, have stopped to watch the lacrosse game with their arms crossed and faces serious. A boy sits on the bleachers reading, looking up only when a particularly loud whoop occurs.

There’s a sense of finality to the whole thing. Derek will be a senior this semester, then he’ll be a graduate, and then he’s off to college, and the rest of his life will begin. This makes his chest go tight, and the sweat pour rivlets, as he targets the space between Danny’s head and the rest of the goalnet. He’s in position, stick poised, ball almost in the air, when Jackson slams into him from the side.

It happens very fast after that.

As soon as they hit the ground, Jackson’s knees entrap Derek by the waist. He’s about to start pushing up, start chewing Jackson out for landing such a hard hit when Derek isn’t even wearing his pads, but he can’t get a word out. Suddenly, Jackson’s removed his helmet and has his face buried deep in the crook of Derek’s neck and he’s _smelling_ him. He writhes, laughing for a moment because _what the fuck, dude?_ \--  but then Jackson is touching his face, gasping huge breaths of hot hair against Derek’s skin, muttering weird shit like _smells so fucking good_ , and Derek’s heart sinks as he realizes this isn’t some kind of joke. Jackson is acting like an animal, the kind of behaviour you see in Law & Order SVU when a rabid alpha goes after a helpless omega (and Derek is struck by a memory; last year, when Jackson presented as alpha, when he wouldn’t stop strutting the hallways like he was God’s gift to the universe), and Derek is too overwhelmed to consider the consequences of this--  

It ends with a punch to Jackson’s jaw.

With a shout, Jackson scrambles away from Derek in an awkward crabwalk that shows off a raging hard on through his gym shorts. Jackson’s eyes are blown wide open, lip split and dribbling blood. Everyone is looking, muttering.

Derek runs.

He gathers his belongings from the sidelines in a flurry, shoving the shirt over his head and throwing his gym bag over his shoulder in one motion.

The kid who was studying at the bleachers is right there in front of him now, standing on the metal bench, book abandoned and his hands tense at his sides. He looks at Derek for a terse second and asks, “Did he hurt you?” with his head nodding in Jackson’s direction. The kid looks at him like he knows something Derek doesn’t.

Derek’s heart beats too wildly to form a sentence. He gapes up at him, the sheriff’s son, he thinks, and shakes his head once.  He storms out of there, ignoring the calls of his friends behind him. Even more, he ignores the itchy sensation in his stomach that tells him to run back there, back to Jackson Whittemore’s intrusive hands and inappropriate boner. He ignores the implications of those thoughts.

It doesn’t really end with a punch to the jaw. It’s really just the beginning.

 

***

 

Contrary to popular belief (ie. films, television, cheesy love songs, and horrible erotic literature), there’s not really a surefire way to tell anyone’s orientation. Not by looking, anyway. Katy Perry can sing her heart out about a big, strong alpha dude saving her from the throes of omega depravity, but that doesn’t mean that all alphas live up to the popular standard.

Stiles is a walking example of this fact.

Alphas are idealized as these big, hulking, hormonal machines that want to mate and breed and provide while flexing their muscles and jutting out their hips at every omega in their path. Stiles isn’t like that. He’s skinny and tall, for one thing, and sure, maybe he has large hands and broad shoulders, but the rest of him is boyish and pathetic. Melissa still calls him babyface, for the love of god.  He has an incessant fear of even talking to omegas, let alone presenting his junk to them. On top of that, Stiles has been on suppressants, like most, since puberty and so he’s got the basic hormonal temperament of your average horny beta.

What this all means is that people don’t really know that Stiles is an alpha. Which is fine. It’s not supposed to be the most important thing in your life. You either present as something or you don’t, in which case, you’re with the majority of people who are beta. Stiles thinks it should be known, however, that if you do present, it’s not actually a bed of roses and endless sex like the movies make it out to be.

Stiles remembers being 13 years old and popping a knot in the middle of the night one summer, and the horrifying experience of having his dad explain what was happening through the bedroom door (because there was no way Stiles was letting his father inside). The next day, and a load of laundry later, Stiles had to go to his doctor and get poked with needles, answer an endless amount of embarrassing medical questions. It was all clinical, getting all his test results and suppressant prescriptions from the pharmacy. He thought that going through the whole ordeal would mean that he was special now, or he would be treated differently, or someone would notice at the very least.

Five minutes into first period that fall, Stiles realized that nobody really cared, or they didn’t believe him, or his looks just didn’t do much to convince anyone that he was alpha. Now, at the start of his junior year, he’s still invisible and alphas like Jackson Whittemore and Lydia Martin are the shining stars of the school because, yeah they’re all on suppressants too, but they look the part. Stiles wonders how many other alphas go to their school under the radar and overshadowed by Jackson’s perfectly shaped jaw and Lydia’s immaculate hair. Greenberg could be an alpha, and he’d never know.

Well...probably not Greenberg.

Moral of the story: you can’t always judge a book by its cover.

But you can certainly judge it by its smell.

One day at the end of summer, Stiles smells something new.

It’s something permeating the air around the lacrosse field, but he can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from exactly. He’s studying on the bleachers for the online course he had to take for extra credit, when a scarce breeze sends the smell his way. There’s just this...nice? No, not nice-- more like heavenly, more like gorgeous, more like _radiant_ smell-- just barely there, but it’s enough that Stiles physically can’t bring himself to get up and drive home to make dinner for his dad like he planned to do an hour ago.

Unbonded omegas and alphas have to take suppressants in order to subdue their pheromonal responses, otherwise people would be crawling up the walls all the time and getting dangerous in public, so Stiles has never smelled the salty sweet, complex, almost intoxicating richness of omega pheromones. There’s something innate, something within him that just tells Stiles that he’s smelling an omega despite this.

He observes Jackson attack another senior on the field-- Cora’s brother, Derek, whom he’s never spoken to, or thought about twice, and the realization of slaps him in the face. Especially when Derek approaches after the fight. The smell, even with alpha suppressants on his side, makes Stiles’ eyes water.

Derek Hale is an omega.

Later that night, when he’s in the shower, two hands fisted around his cock, he thinks about how right he was. You can never just tell by looks. Derek Hale looks like he could eat Stiles alive. He has hair on his chest and defined muscles, and he’s stocky, tanned, broad, kind of intimidating. Yet he stank of something that made Stiles want to pin him down, made him feel like he could pin him down.

He runs through the whole incident a thousand times over in his head, and only comes to one conclusion. It’s a thing that makes him endlessly wanton, makes him scratch below his pyjama bottoms in bed until he’s hard again.

That moment right before Jackson tackled him was the moment Derek presented as omega, and he got to witness it.

He got to smell it.

 

***

 

When Derek wakes up after his nap, Laura is in the bed beside him. He cracks one eye to see her looking up at the ceiling intently, arms and legs crossed peacefully atop of the covers that Derek is buried under. She turns her head and sighs in his direction, meeting his sleepy gaze for a moment before going back to staring at the ceiling.

“Hey, bunny,” she says.

Derek sighs with her and turns himself over. He fell asleep belly down, like he does most nights, but he makes a mental note to start sleeping on his back. Maybe sleeping on his stomach is too submissive a position. He’s started to analyze shit like that now. It’s driving him crazy.

“Did you know all along?” he decides to ask her. Someone must have told her. Maybe it was a text from Peter. God knows he can’t keep a secret. He knows that  she knows because it’s not Thanksgiving or Christmas, so why else would she make the two hour trip back home from her school? Laura loves being on her own, loves her sketchy assortment of random roommates, loves her shitbox apartment and poorly paid TA positions. She hates coming back under Mom’s roof. Cora says it’s because they’re too similar. She only comes back for her brother and sister.

“I knew as much as you.” She’s thoughtful for a few seconds. “You really didn’t know? You know, deep down, or whatever? How do you miss that?” The way she’s phrased the question sounds like she’s asking herself more than Derek. How did any of them not know that Derek had this thing hiding inside his body, inside his genes this whole time?

“No.” It’s a hard no. “They called me a late bloomer.” He rolls his eyes because there’s just something so cavalier about that phrase.

“Can I ask…?” she says a little awkwardly. If he looked her in the face, he would bet her cheeks are pink. Derek is too afraid to look her in the face. He wish he knew why.

“Ask me what?”

“How….I mean what does it feel like?”

“I don’t know, Laura.” If she thinks he’s going to start talking to her about arousal and lubrication she has another thing fucking coming. “It feels the same. Why don’t you read the educational pamphlets the doctor gave mom?” He doesn’t include that Laura would have to dig through the kitchen garbage to get at those pamphlets.

“Dude, you _presented_. It can’t feel the same.”

“Well,” he starts indignantly,:”I don’t feel any different.”

It’s a cold lie. He feels a thousand things right now, all of them sensations and thoughts he didn’t feel before this. All of them are new. Some of them, he thinks, are just in his head. The doctor says otherwise. The doctor has prescribed him his first round of suppressants, just a blocker to stop him from going into full heat, then he’ll go back next month to get tested again so they can figure out the perfect and particular cocktail of hormones to pump him with so that he doesn’t secrete pheromones in public. Apparently that’s what had happened with Jackson the other day. Secretions.

The whole thing was very unnerving and Derek hates doctor visits to begin with.

The two bottles of suppressants are sitting in his bedside drawer underneath as much junk he could throw in there. He feels the need to hide them. Actually, he wants to hide everything. He wants to hide himself because it feels like it’s tattooed on his forehead.

But he can’t hide from Laura, never could.

She throws her hand casually over so that it’s touching his chest. Then she kind of growls, frustrated.

“What are you so afraid of? You’re omega. You’re not dying.”

Derek wishes he knew the answer.  He can’t help but feel like this diagnosis is less of a medical orientation and more of a curse, like his whole life until this point has been some kind of lie, like he’s not the person he thought he was. There’s a thousand social justice bloggers online who would point their fingers at him and yell “internalized omephobia!” Maybe they’re right. Laura is right, too, for that matter, but he doesn’t know how to begin climbing out from this hole he’s dug himself.

“I think I’m--” he can’t put it into words. Derek isn’t great with words in the first place. “I’m scared of the worst thing that could happen.”

“What’s the worst thing?”

Derek sighs, thinking about that helpless moment before he punched Jackson’s face, when he was a few seconds from widening his legs, from grinding up into the heat of his body.

“Being claimed.”

 

***

 

Stiles stops taking his suppressants on Monday, the first day of school.

He’d spent the entire weekend jerking off to no avail. The avail being actual satisfaction, and the jerking off being very vanilla.

Vanilla isn’t cutting it-- not since the other day on the field. He can’t get it out of his head. He can’t get this heavy, tight feeling to loosen in his chest, in his groin. Every orgasm is like an anticlimax, barely there, it feels. The phantom smell of pheromones haunts his actual fucking dreams, to where he wakes up panting, grinding into his sheets, damp with sweat and god knows what else. Stiles needs something...something bigger.  

He _needs_ to knot. Just in his hand. Just once.

His dad is working nights this week.

You can’t form a proper knot with the amount of suppressants that Stiles’ dosage releases. It will take three days for the drugs to work themselves out of his body and then he can go to town. Maybe he can get Derek Hale off his mind if he just fulfills that deep rooted, painful urge. He can just pretend his hand is Derek’s hot, silky, dripping--

He opens the pillbox in his bathroom while adjusting himself in his boxers. Stiles pops the adderal and the multivitamin into his mouth with a bit of water, then he flushes the two small capsules of pheromonal suppressants and hormonal blockers down the sink. He stands tall in front of the mirror and squares himself up. He will go back on the pills in a few days, of course, because he has to, or else the whole school would start to smell something suspicious (he tries to stifle the part of him that wants them all to smell, wants them all to know that he has a knot and knows how to use it).

So three days. He can wait three days.

Maybe he’ll venture out to that sex shop on the edge of town and get a fleshlight for the occasion.

In the meantime, he turns on the shower and sits on the toilet lid, pulling out his phone. He opens the Facebook app to stare at the various profile pictures of Derek Hale that he’s allotted to look at, since they aren’t friends. He slips a hand into his boxers for the third time that morning.

 

***

 

Derek tries to take the pills by mixing them into pudding. He is awful at swallowing capsules and these things are horse sized, foul tasting, and impossible to force down his throat, and he’s supposed to take them with food anyway. He steals a snack pack from Cora’s lunch in the morning and tries to hide the things in there, shoveling the whole cup into his mouth with a big spoon until he thinks it’s safe to swallow.

It isn’t. He can still feel them near his back molar. They are starting to dissolve, tasting medicinal and harsh, chalky and bitter with chemicals. Derek spits into the sink.

“Gross,” Cora remarks from the other side of the kitchen as she grabs the lunch Mom put out for her. “Where’s my pudding?”

“We’re out.”

She flips him the bird. Derek, for once, ignores his little sister’s goading and stares into the sink, where the running tap has washed away the pudding. He doesn’t see any pills in the drain or anything, so maybe he managed to swallow the last one before he spit the mouthful out?

Laura leans on the horn from outside, sticking her head out of the Camaro and yelling for Cora and Derek to hurry their asses up. She’s extended her stay a few days (Derek suspects so that she can get drunk with her high school friends who are still working in town for the summer before their college semesters begin) and she's dropping them off at school out of the kindness of her heart, even though Derek was supposed to be allowed to drive the Camaro this year.

At the last minute, he realizes that he forgot his laptop upstairs and makes a run for it before Laura leaves him there to take the bus with Boyd.

He doesn't think twice about the pills.

 

***

 

“Dude, what’s up with you?” Scott asks after first period. The hallways are flooding with people on their way to their next class and Stiles has been watching out for Derek Hale like a hawk. It’s not like he’s going to talk to the guy. Though he has already talked to him...just the once, just to make sure he was okay be after that tackle on the field, because there was an intense part of him that needed to know that he was okay, even if they’d never really met before.

He had been to Cora’s house once and only once and he knew her as well as he knew anyone else in his grade, which is to say, not well at all.  She was the host of last year’s halloween party, the kind of thing that literally everyone and anyone was invited to, just for its sheer size, but the sheriff’s department had broken it up before midnight, and since his dad was the Sheriff, Stiles was the narc by default. He hadn’t been invited to another one. For the brief two and half hours Stiles spent at that party, he was mostly trying to work up the courage to talk to Lydia Martin, maybe find a way to bond over their alpha-ness. Of course, he also mostly spent the night in a text fight with his dad, who warned him that he better not be there, or his ass was getting thrown in the drunk tank with the local homeless dude who always got arrested for peeing on city hall. To which drunk-Stiles promptly replied with his stock snarky wit.

So maybe it really was Stiles’ fault for bringing the heat to the party.

In any case, he regrets it now, not only for the sake of his social life, but because he should have spent the time exploring the Hale’s grand, nearly mansion sized house on the preserve. He could have found Derek’s bedroom, studied the posters on the walls to learn which sports teams he supports, what music he favours. He could have found Derek in the flesh and maybe had a halfway decent conversation with him, enough to add him on social media and stay familiar. If he thinks about it hard enough, he can remember seeing him in the kitchen some time that night with a beer in one hand and his phone in the other, texting and not socializing, like Stiles.

“Earth to Stiles,” Scott says while snapping his fingers in front of Stiles’ face, breaking the reverie.

“Huh?” He shakes himself. “What?”

“You’re super spaced out today, bro. Did you take too much adderall?”

Stiles wishes he could dignify this with a witty comeback, but just as Scott says it, Derek Hale walks through the far exit, making his way toward the gym. Today, he’s wearing a dark green henley and darker, bluer jeans that look worn in a good way. He got a haircut since last week-- just a trim, just a slight shave to the already slight undercut that grows out to lush black hair on top of his head. His skin is tanned from the summer, but his lips are a shade darker than his complexion. Stiles thinks that his nipples would be dark, too.

And the thing is-- Stiles swears to god that he can smell a faint whisper of the scent that clung to him at the pickup game. He sucks the air in subconsciously, nostrils flaring a bit.  

For a second in passing, Derek Hale looks at Stiles. His eyes kind of twitch, like he wants to widen them, but he doesn’t. They make eye contact for the full four seconds it takes for Derek to walk out of his line of vision, and then he’s gone, leaving Stiles standing there with his heart hammering against his chest.

Scott flicks him in the nose. “I’m going to find Kira. Don’t stand here all day.”

 

***

 

Derek is in fourth period when he feels it.

He shuffles in his seat, trying to concentrate on the lesson that Mr. Yukimura has written on the board, something about propaganda from the Gulf War, but something is wrong with him.

Something feels wet.

Hot blood rushes to his cheeks as soon as the realization hits him-- just why and where the feeling strikes him. There’s a dampness, a sort of slippery feeling below the waist that he’s never felt before. Stronger than that, there’s a hot feeling like he’s being watched, like everyone is aware of Derek’s body and he can’t cover it up. Ten minutes go by and Derek spends the whole time hoping that he’s really just imagining it, but a moment passes where there is a distinct tingle to his ass, a sort of feeling of movement, a pulse that he can’t control.

He gets a hall pass and tries to convey a sense of calmness as he makes his way from the class, even though there is panic creeping out of his spine, from under his fingernails. For a brief second, he catches Jackson watching him, but his head shoots down to his notebook as soon as Derek sees.

He wants to set himself on fire.

Upon inspection in the very last stall of the bathroom, which is beautifully empty, Derek makes a few assumptions.

The first is that he’s wet with slick. He experimentally touches himself...back there, just a light graze, too afraid to explore that place with any meaning. His hand comes away glossy on the side of his palm, a lush, clear, and thin substance dampening the skin. It’s slowly leaking from him, tortuously, like a malfunction of his body that is out of his frame of knowledge.

The next assumption Derek makes is that he should go back to the omegologist. He only skimmed the pamphlets, only half listened to the pharmacist’s discussion of side-effects of his suppressants. He regrets that now. Is this normal? Could he bear to even ask? Dredging it up, these inconveniences of his body, a body that feels ill fitting, all of it stinks of dread and makes his blood boil. It would be easier not to talk about it, to not think about it. It would be so much better to just pretend it’s not happening.

Derek makes another assumption as he emerges from the stall to wash the slick from his fingers; he isn’t alone in here anymore.

The sheriff’s kid stands over a sink, turning on the faucet. He looks up into the mirror to spot Derek behind him. And Derek swears to God, he feels a hot, tingling rush of slick pooling when he sees the kid. It’s followed immediately by a sense of nakedness, like he’s in one of those dreams where he’s standing in front of the class in his underwear. This is worse somehow. It’s just the two of them.

They meet eyes again, the second time that day. There’s still slick on his fingers.

“Hey,” he says to Derek.

“Hey.”

A few moments go by-- tense, weird, and Derek thinks he’s getting an ulcer. It’s not entirely bad, for some reason. Most people in this situation would go on about their business, wash their hands, dry them, avoid eye contact, leave the room. Derek just stands there, rooted to the ground. The other boy turns off the tap, turns to face Derek, mouth open like he wants to say something other than “hey”.

 _He doesn’t know_ , he thinks. _He can’t know. How could he know?_

The slick on his fingers now feels like it’s shining, drawing the kid’s eyes to Derek’s hand. he moves it behind his back, praying for something to break him out of this.

“You’re, uh, you’re Cora’s brother, right?” the kid asks, running a hand through his messy hair. His shoulders move with tension as he does it, muscles straining. There’s something mesmerising about his shoulders, the broadness of them, like they don’t quite belong to the rest of him.

“Yeah, you’re, uh.. Stilinski, right? In Cora’s year?”

“Stiles. I’m Stiles.”

Stiles has brown eyes the color of Jack Daniels. Derek thinks they’re nice, but he wishes he wasn’t thinking these thoughts.

“So...do you have a free period right now? You’re a senior, right?”

“I’m supposed to be in History.”

“With Yukimura?” Stiles’s says as his tongue darts out for a moment to swipe over his lips. Derek swallows, nods. Stiles lets out a little laugh. “Well, he’s a pushover anyway.”

“I think I’m going to leave...I...actually I don’t feel good.” _You’re making me wet_ , he thinks. It’s the strangest thought that’s ever entered his brain, but it doesn’t make it any less true.

He watches Stiles swallow, watches his adam’s apple bob and his jaw clench. He watches Stiles’s fists tighten and release at his sides. A long and awkward pause, this thing is, but Derek doesn’t have the willpower to leave the conversation, and it looks as if Stiles is doing complicated formulas in his head. He waits, and then finally, Stiles asks him,

“Do you need a ride?”

“Okay,” Derek replies. Something in the exchange feels heavy. Derek is sure that there's subtext here that they are both ignoring. He's sure that despite his efforts, Stiles does know exactly what's happening to Derek's body. And Derek knows exactly why Stiles is offering him a ride. 

He’s fucked.

 

***

 

God, he smells...he smells like…

Stiles can’t even put it into words. It takes every ounce of his intelligence to operate the vehicle as they make their way out of the school parking lot. His jeep rumbles under them, filling the air up with the tangy scent of exhaust, but it’s nothing, not even t _ouching_ the smell saturating the atmosphere. As soon as Derek shut his door, they were sealed in, marinating, trapped with this obvious, honey sweet, salty aroma. Stiles is practically hungry for it.

He’s hard, hoping it’s not obvious, but Derek hasn’t looked in his direction since they got onto the highway that leads out to his property. It’s a long drive. They don’t put on the radio..

Ten minutes in, Derek starts to shift in his seat, and from the corner of Stiles’ eye, he can see his hands tapping nervously against his thighs. The moments go by so slowly and thickly, Stiles can hardly take it. He cuts the silence.

“You seem, like, really on edge.”

Derek looks at him. Stiles decides to look back, tearing his eyes away from the road for a few seconds. Derek’s jaw is set, hard, but his eyes are something else-- soft, pleading, misty.

“You know why,” he says, like a bullet to Stiles’ chest.

Stiles swallows something heavy, belly tingling and swirling with possibility. “What do I know?” he asks. Now it feels dangerous, but thrilling, like he could be blindfolded driving this jeep.

It takes Derek a long time to say it, but when he does, it’s not a whisper-- it’s clear and sure, like an accusation. “You know what I am.”

“Yeah.” _Omega_ , Stiles thinks. He thinks it ten times over. _Omega, omega, omega._

“But you don’t even know me.” Derek sits up a bit.

“I’m an alpha.” This time, Stiles tries to make it sound clear and sure, but his voice threatens to crack under the weight of the words. It’s the first time he’s said that sentence and not been laughed at. It’s the first time that sentence has really meant anything. “You just...you _smell_ like--”

“Oh, Jesus.” Derek drags a hand over his face.

Stiles lets the silence go on for a while, until they reach the edge of town, where the Beacon Hills sign bids them ado, and the foreboding forests ahead start to suck them into isolation. They’re almost at Derek’s place now.

Pulling into the open gates of the Hale estate, Stiles slows the jeep to a stall as soon as he sees the house in front of them. They left school early and no one seems to be home yet, which is a whole new tension in of itself. He turns off the ignition. The silence is screaming.

Stiles decides to apologize for...whatever this is. But, God, he’ll never get this smell out of his car. He’ll never get it out of his memory.

“Look, I’m sorry if I’ve...made you, you know…”

“If you’ve made me what?” Derek snaps at him. Another accusation.

“Uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Derek looks at him for what seems like a while. A leaf from one of the browning trees around them falls onto the windshield. Stiles stares at it, at anywhere except Derek’s face.

“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” Derek says breathily. It comes out softer than anything else he’s said to Stiles in the last half an hour, weighing more than anything else he’s said. Stiles feels like the air has been sucked dry from the jeep, like he needs to gasp in Derek’s expelled oxygen. Just a few feet and he would be right there, in Derek’s space, right in the spot between his neck and shoulder that he desperately wants to lick. He faces Derek again, leaning in just a few inches, enough for safety.

Derek leans in a little bit, too. Maybe safety is out the window. With a sickening lurch, Stiles remembers that he hasn’t taken the suppressants today.  

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” Stiles almost groans.

Derek’s expression shifts, his eyebrows relaxing, face smoothing into something like shock, but he doesn’t look mad.

Suddenly, his hand is touching Stiles’s face. He cups the edge of Stiles’ jaw, smoothing over the skin there, dragging his fingers lower. Stiles doesn’t even breathe as he opens his mouth, as Derek’s index and middle finger tug at his lower lip. He slides his tongue out to taste them, and then Derek sinks them both into Stiles’ mouth, pressing his tongue flat. A flavour bursts around them, something like the smell of Derek, but more salty and tangible. His cock twitches a few times, straining now in his jeans, and he could come just from this taste, probably.

Derek’s mouth is parted, panting a little, tongue threatening to loll. Stiles wants to touch him, feels like he has to, and when Derek widens his legs, Stiles moves his hand over to his inner thigh. On a gasp, he sucks Derek’s fingers with more vigor, fumbling his hand forward to get at Derek’s waist.

Derek pulls his fingers from Stiles’ mouth with a pop. Stiles pauses his hands on the hot skin of Derek’s abdomen, where soft hair leads a trail.

“This is crazy,” Derek says, nearly a whisper. Their hearts are the only sound, penetrating the quiet with frantic, erratic thumps and excitement. It’s crazy. Stiles has never had a conversation with this boy, never shaken his hand, and now he knows what it’s like to feel his fingers against his tongue.

“You taste so--” he tries, but can’t get the words out, throwing his head back against the headrest.

Derek gives him a look, a frenzied kind of thing, and says, “It’s slick. It’s mine.”

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” Stiles says. It’s like his entire torso has gone liquid, like he swallowed a hot iron and now he’s burned from the inside out. “Can I...please, can I just--?”

He scratches at Derek’s waist, but then Derek’s hand meets his, and together, they’re fumbling at the buttons, until Stiles can finally slip his hand inside. The first thing he feels is the hot, swollen weight of Derek’s cock, half hard and heavy. Derek sucks in a breath through his teeth, sitting up a little so that he can slide his jeans down his thighs, spread his legs a bit more. Stiles slips past his balls and then feels it-- the part of Derek that’s wet.

He presses the pads of his fingers against Derek’s hole, where it’s throbbing, almost like a pulse, and smooth, and viscous, luscious.

“You’re _soaked_ , man,” he says, voice cracking.

Derek has his eyes closed, head back, his lip caught between his teeth.

Stiles presses his other hand against his cock through his jeans. He’s so turned on that it’s enough to make him twitch again. He keeps talking, can’t seem to stop now.

“You could probably just...just fucking take it so easily. I could just slip right in and you--” He mumbles these things as he moves in slow circles, the slick gathering with every touch of his fingers. Derek makes the smallest of moans.

“I wanna make you come-- can I just? What do you need? Tell me what you need to make you come,” he says, stuttering to get the words out because his other hand has taken it upon itself to start rubbing his cock, and fuck, he’s so close already. He wants Derek to come apart on his hands though, like it's the only thing he's meant to do, like it's the only thing that will get Stiles off, too. 

“I want--” Derek starts. His legs spread even wider, and then Stiles is watching him first his own cock, pulling it slowly as the muscles of his thighs tense and release. “Inside me-- just, just a little bit--”

It’s all the invitation Stiles needs before he presses his fingers forward, and two of them slide almost perfectly into the hot, soft inside of Derek’s cunt. They both gasp a little, but Stiles just keeps going, pushing farther and stretching him out wider in shallow thrusts. As soon as he does it, Derek swears and twitches in his seat. “I’m gonna come, oh fuck--”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes. “Me too, Jesus Christ, I wanna give you my knot, Derek, I want--”

One more thrust of Stiles’ fingers and then Derek _fucking comes_ , has gone weightless, his whole body sagging while his cock twitches with a small load,  but he throbs around Stiles’ hand, rivulets of slick gathering fast as the muscle spasms around him. That feeling alone is what tips Stiles over, make his cock jump in his jeans, almost untouched. He comes hard and blindingly with Derek’s cunt still twitching on his fingers.

They stay just like that for a few long moments. It was so fast. It wasn't long enough. He wants to rewind and hover in the moment for hours and hours. 

With their breath slowing, Derek finally says,

“Get out of me.”

Stiles pulls his hand slowly away. He brings those fingers to his face. His whole hand is practically shining with Derek’s come, and Stiles fights every urge in his body that tells him to lick himself clean. Instead, he wipes his hand against his already ruined jeans, where a wet patch is spreading on his crotch. He came a lot more than he usually does, but it doesn't surprise him.

Next to him, Derek is busy pulling his pants back up, and trying to regain composure. When he’s dressed and sitting back to normal, it almost looks as it had five minutes ago, when they were just innocently taking a ride in the jeep. Has it really only been five minutes since they've parked? It could have been an hour. Stiles can't tell time right now. 

The next thing Derek says brings a shock of reality to him,  “You can’t tell anyone about this.” 

Stiles swallows thickly. Something like shame starts to settle in the car.

“I wouldn’t...I haven’t told anyone about you, if that’s what you’re worried--”

“This was a mistake,” Derek says. His voice is nothing like it was before, empty of hunger or warmth. He looks ahead, neck straight, fingers no longer tapping, no longer on edge. 

“Okay.” His face feels hot. This feeling is sort of sickening, like failure and rejection bundled into one.

When Derek leaves, Stiles watches him disappear into his nice house, and it’s like a bubble audibly bursting around him, like waking up from a good dream, like ice water to the face, He starts the jeep with shaky, messy fingers, and peels out of the preserve with more tension and urgency in his chest than he’d arrived with.

 

***

 

Derek, inside his house, locks himself in his room. With his face hidden in the pillow, and his ass high in the air, he stuffs himself with his own fingers, chasing the sensation of Stiles like a junkie chasing a high.

He gets off three more times.

It doesn’t help.

He’s the most empty he’s ever been.

 


End file.
